


He called me Bucky

by alilfallofrain



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alilfallofrain/pseuds/alilfallofrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the man on the bridge calls him Bucky the Winter Soldier begins questioning everything, and searching for who he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He called me Bucky

He’d never had a name before, at least not that he could remember. Sure, somewhere in the distant past he probably had a mother and a father and a name, but if he didn’t remember had it ever really happened? It was the same thing, time and again: wake up, take out an enemy, finish the mission, and back into cryo. He was a machine, and machines didn’t get names.

But this was different.

Bucky. With a spark of recognition burning in his eyes, he’d called him Bucky. He’d _known_ him. Known his name, known his history, known _him_. Even after the “treatments” meant to wipe his memory, even after the pain and the lightning and the all-consuming nothingness he could not forget the man on the bridge. The man who knew him.

As they fought once more on the war ship, or rather as he fought and the man did nothing, it all felt familiar. The man didn’t try to kill him, he didn’t even really fight back, he did just enough to get the mission done - and then he came back to help.

_I’m with you, til the end of the line_

Those words had brought a whole new type of lightning. A flash of recognition. This man, this _mission_ , not only knew him but _trusted_ him. The word “friend” floated somewhere just out of reach in his mind as he looked down, the word “family” joined it as he pulled his mission from the water and dragged him to shore, to safety.

_Bucky. I’m with you til the end of the line. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. Til the end of the line._

The words echoed, louder and louder, over and over, until he could no longer ignore it. The man, the mission, he’d heard there was an exhibit about him at one of the museums nearby and figured that was the best place to start. He grabbed some clothes, tossed in a pile next to a bin marked “Goodwill,” and dressed quickly. They were plain, boring, and perfect for blending in. As he approached the exhibit he pulled the hood over his head, obscuring his face, trying to ignore the strange looks he kept getting from everyone around him.

Stepping into the hall he was greeted by all the fanfare he’d expected for this man he’d come to understand was some sort of national hero. Big American flag paintings with scenes of war graced the walls as he moved deeper. People talking about this man, this Steve Rogers, this _Captain America_ person.

And then he froze, eyes wide.

It was like staring in a mirror - one of the ones you’d see at a funhouse or carnival, the ones that reflected the world ever so slightly different than it actually was. His hair was shorter, he was smiling, his arm wasn’t mechanical, but it was him. Slowly his eyes moved upwards from the picture until they landed on the very word that continued to echo throughout his entire being.

_Bucky._

This the-same-but-different person was Bucky. This the-same-but-different person was him, his past, the spark of recognition from the man on the bridge.

He spent hours walking the exhibit hall; reading every piece of information and then reading it again and again until he’d memorized it, looking at every picture, every video, every painting of him, of who he used to be, until it felt more like a memory than a painting on a wall. He stood in front of the story of his death for ages, flashes of actual memory mixing with words from the video playing an infinite loop of loss. Slowly the hall emptied out as closing time approached until he was left alone, standing in front of a picture of this him-that-was with his arm around the man on the bridge.

The chorus of _Who the hell is Bucky?_ slowly melted, transforming itself into a new refrain.

_Bucky Barnes. I’m with you, til the end of the line._


End file.
